


Helping Hand

by Rroselavy



Category: DOGS - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:10:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rroselavy/pseuds/Rroselavy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Badou has a problem and Heine lends him a hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slr2moons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slr2moons/gifts).



They’re coming too fast. Or, at least too fast for Badou -- Heine seems to take the renewed onslaught in stride. He is awesome to watch, a blur of black leather and white hair wheeling and spinning in graceful arabesques while systematically obliterating their -- Badou’s -- enemies. He’s fearless and indestructible, a perfect killing machine, and Badou would be happy to contemplate that fact while taking a drag off a cigarette, if he wasn’t too worried about saving his own skin first.

When the smoke clears, they are the only two standing. The adrenalin is still fierce in Heine’s veins, and the metallic tang of blood mixes with the sulfurous residue of bullets.

“What the hell took you so long?” he spits, his voice shaking. “I’m the brains and you’re the brawn, remember, Heine?”

“You’re worse than a woman -- I’m always saving your ass,” Heine snarls.

“At least I put out, unlike Naoto, the ice-princess.”

Heine glares at Badou. “She’s not my type.”

Badou can’t stop himself. “Or your little angel.”

“Careful, Badou,” Heine warns between clenched teeth.

Badou doesn’t want to set him off, and he doesn’t know why he’s needling Heine except for the fact that he’s sporting a woody. Still, the fact he hasn’t been punched in the face is pretty significant.

Heine stalks off, ending their conversation, and Badou races to catch up with him. They walk shoulder-to-shoulder away from the carnage as sirens wail and grow louder. Neither looks back to survey the carnage they’ve left in their wake, nor do they speak until they’ve made it safely back to the bishop’s. Once there, out of his gore-spattered clothes and under the shower nozzle, Badou’s body can finally relax, even though his mind continues to race, playing the events of the battle over and over like a bad tape loop.

By the time he shuts off the faucets, the water has run cold. Badou rubs his skin dry with a rough terrycloth towel until it’s rosy and there couldn’t possibly be a molecule of blood or guts or brains left on him. He’s still sporting a residual hard-on, which the cool air outside of the bathroom does nothing to abate. He’s torn between a quick wank or a cigarette. Hell, he can have both, he decides, rolling his shoulders. He walks over to a full-size mirror leaning against the wall. It has a huge crack in it that cuts diagonally through his torso from his right shoulder to left hip -- the top half of his image is offset from the bottom by a fraction of an inch. He feels naked without his eye patch and avoids looking at the blank socket. He tosses his head until his hair falls over the old injury.

He doesn’t have a half-bad body; it’s a little on the scrawny side, but that’s gotten him out of tight squeezes on many an occasion.

“I’m not gay.” Heine’s voice startles Badou; he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“What the fuck?” he exclaims, whirling around. “Don’t you knock?”

“The door was open.”

Heine’s hair is damp. He’s dressed in a worn t-shirt and a pair of jeans -- unusual for him since the low neckline exposes his collar. Not for the first time, Badou wonders about the mechanism and how it’s altered Heine.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to imply that, and for the record, neither am I. But the right hand gets kind of boring after awhile. At least it does for me,” he says.

“So what are you saying, then?”

Badou shrugs his shoulders and let out a nervous laugh. He’s not having this conversation now, not with his dick hanging out at half-mast. Heine steps in closer to him, then stops, just out of reach.

“Nothing,” Badou says hurriedly. “Just-just forget about it. I was playing around.” His pulse pounds in his throat.

“I want to know,” Heine reiterates. His eyes are glittering, and Badou can’t figure out if he’s pissed or something else. After a few seconds, he can’t meet Heine’s gaze and turns away.

“Leave me alone,” Badou mumbles.

Heine snorts. “Just like a woman,” he smirks.

 _If I were a woman, you wouldn’t even be talking to me_ , Badou thinks, though he knows saying something like that would be crossing a line that he would never be able to come back over. He turns around and throws his arms wide. “I’m one-hundred percent male. Even with one good eye, I can tell the difference!”

Heine steps close -- real close -- until the fabric of his jeans brushes the head of Badou’s dick. His eyelid flutters shut from the intensity of the friction and then widens when he feels a callused hand wrap around his length.

“Heine,” Badou moans, utterly failing to sound indignant. His back meets the cool wall. He’s not sure how he got there, because the only thing that he can hold in his head is how wonderful Heine’s hand is and how fantastic it feels jacking him off. Cautiously, he raises his hands and puts them on Heine’s shoulders for support. Eventually Badou is leaning forward, his forehead hovering inches from Heine’s neck. He glances down and watches the pale skin on the back of Heine’s hand. It’s moving at a furious pace, pulling Badou closer to the edge of orgasm.

“Fuuuck,” he gasps, causing Heine’s movement to hitch. “Please.” Badou digs his fingers into Heine’s shoulders, desperately urging him on. He rests his head on his hand; the other slides over the collar and Badou’s fingers caress the nape of Heine’s neck. His damp hair brushes the backs of Badou’s fingers. “So close, Heine.” And then his body becomes rigid and he comes violently, spasms wracking him. His knees buckle, but Heine is there to catch him; he lowers Badou gently to the floor.

When the stars finally dissipate from Badou’s field of vision, he glances up. Heine is still standing there, his face impassive.

“Shit, I really need a smoke.” Badou’s voice is shaky. It matches the tremors that remain -- residue from one of the best orgasms he’s ever experienced. He gets to his feet slowly. “You okay?” he asks. He wonders what the proper etiquette is when your best friend’s just given you a hand job.

Heine shrugs, and Badou finds his indifference irritating.

“Shit, man, what the fuck was that all about?”

“I--I don’t know.”

Shockingly, Heine sounds confused. Badou finds his cigarettes and lights one. He pulls on a pair of jeans and hands Heine a tissue to clean off his hands.

“Look, don’t get all weird on me now,” Badou says finally. “It didn’t mean anything, okay? Your secret is safe with me.”

That seems to be enough to snap Heine out of his trance. He looks around the room, then holds Badou’s gaze for a few seconds before he leaves.

Badou stares after him and, when he’s sure Heine is out of earshot, he mutters, “Yeah, well, this conversation is not over.”

He takes a long drag from his cigarette, holds his breath for a couple of seconds, then smiles as he exhales.


End file.
